


half full, half empty, or just plain empty?

by a_good_soldier



Series: HANDLING EXPRESSIONS OF WINCHESTER EMOTION: A FIELD GUIDE (or: supernatural s12 codas) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Family, Gen, Non-Consensual, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_good_soldier/pseuds/a_good_soldier
Summary: In which Sam says no to the same conversation about Toni a few times, with varying end results.





	

**Author's Note:**

> holy shit y'all this season is REALLY GOIN' for the emotional hooks!! i didn't know i would ever feel this many feelings about this show ever again! also a warning- this references [spoilers ahead] the very rapey sam/toni hallucination from the episode, so please be prepared for that if you choose to read ahead. also of course just general torture warning, because supernatural runs on damaged winchester nerve endings. also it's 1:44 AM where i am and i wrote this in one sitting so sorry if it's incoherent!!!

“So,” Dean says, popping the lid off his beer. Sixth of the night, by Sam’s count.

 

After a pause, Sam frowns. “So...”

 

“So what’d she do to you?” Dean looks up in time to see Sam’s flinch, and sighs expressively. “Kid, come on, she had you for four friggin—”

 

“Don’t.” Sam grabs a beer out of the near-empty case and chugs half of it down in one go. He smiles, a little. “I talked to Mom tonight.”

 

“Don’t you start,” Dean says, pointing at Sam with his beer. “Yeah, I wanna hear about that, but I want you to tell me about what friggin’ double oh seven was doin’ to you first.”

 

Sam laughs. “Why?” He leans on his back the wrong way in an effort to find a place that doesn’t have the memory of pain (Cas’s angel voodoo is convenient, but disorienting as all hell), and has to shake off the sense-memory of her hands on him. “What do you get out of it?”

 

Dean steps back, appalled. “Sam,” he says, “I just want you to friggin, you know, deal with the situation! Do you think I like hearing about this? You think I like it?”

 

“No, Dean,” Sam murmurs, “of course not.” He sighs. “I just...” He blinks back tears, and lets out a breath. Dean notices, of course. He always notices. “I don’t wanna talk about it, because if I do, I’m gonna—”

 

He’s almost crying already, of course, so friggin’— at least in hell, it had been pain heaped on other pain. Looking back, he was probably—definitely—traumatized, but hey, at least it was consistent. He doesn’t know what to do with Toni’s... hallucination. Christ, he’s never gonna be able to—

 

“Sammy?” Dean almost reaches out to him, and his face closes on the briefest flash of guilt when Sam can’t help but jerk back. “Sam, Jesus, I’m gonna _kill_ that bitch—”

 

“Dean,” Sam chokes out, so confused by the flashes of pleasure during his time with Toni that the tiniest hint of violence in a safe space sends him spiraling. “I— yeah, me too, but don’t—” _I can’t hear you say you want to hurt someone_ , he wants to say, but can’t.

 

Dean slides a beer to him across the table, and Sam swigs it down gratefully. “She made me feel,” Sam whispers, ashamed. “And sometimes she—” he can’t say it, he can’t, he can’t— “She made me feel good.”

 

Dean looks, puzzled, at Sam. “Sam—”

 

“I didn’t—” _I hated my body’s betrayal; I hated that a spell made me want her; I hated that she used Jess to break me. I hate that she violated me, and I hate that I liked it_. Sam’s heaving in great huge swaths of breath, as though oxygen is gonna heal his damn memory. He wishes his foot was still screwed up so he could have an excuse to recover, and immediately feels guilty for wanting time off.

 

“Sam,” Dean is saying, “Sam, Sammy, hey, come on, look at me—”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, I’m with you.”

 

Dean pulls him, headfirst, into a hug, and Sam buries his face in Dean’s shoulder. “Hey,” Dean says, soothingly, like he did when Sam was six and broke one of his toes, “hey, it’s okay. I’m sorry.” Dean’s hands stroke through Sam’s hair, and his gruff, low voice is enough to keep Sam out of his memories of Toni. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

 

Sam is about to pull back, when he hears Mom (holy _shit_ ) come in the kitchen. “Boys,” she says, so so softly. Sam can hear the exact moment she spots the beers, because she lets out a disbelieving huff. “I guess you’re too old for me to scold you about drinking.”

 

“Hell,” Dean says as Sam makes himself presentable, “you could start on a whole anti-drinking lecture and I’d be grateful,” still too honest after Sam’s mini-breakdown.

 

Mary quirks a small smile at that, and walks closer to them. “What’s wrong?”

 

Sam starts laughing, but he can feel his eyebrows pulling together in distress. He’s gonna be crying soon if he doesn’t get a grip.

 

“Sam’s, uh,” Dean starts.

 

Sam smiles, and even he can tell that it’s a sad one. “I don’t want to tell you,” he says, lifting up his hands in helplessness, and the only word he can think of that describes his voice right now is _plaintive_. “I just don’t want to tell you.”

 

And Mom looks at him and—she _knows_. Dean knows a little, because he’s had decades more than his fair share of torture, but somehow, somehow Mom knows why this is different. And she walks towards him, and Sam breathes, “ _please, don’t_ ,” and she just pulls him into her arms for the second time that night as he shakes and shakes and shakes.

 

“I’m gonna make some coffee,” Dean says, because the fact that it’s two in the morning and he’s had six beers doesn’t seem to make a difference to him.

 

“Good idea,” Mom says, pulling away, and Sam lets her go, as much as he wants to hold on for the rest of his life. “It’s always better to talk things out feeling awake than boozed out.”

 

Sam looks at her disbelievingly, and she follows it up with, “Don’t worry. I rarely follow my own advice.”

 

He laughs, and breathes out shakily, and goes to sit at their main dining table. 

 

Dean comes out with two cups of coffee, and Mom’s got a third in her hands. They’re about to sit down like they’re in a damn meeting and Sam doesn’t know what to do, so he drinks the coffee that’s handed to him.

 

As Dean rounds the table, he brushes his hand over Sam’s shoulders, and Sam blurts, “Please don’t touch me there.”

 

Dean’s hand freezes just above his back, and Mom sets her cup down very, very quietly. Sam struggles for breath like he’s walked up thirty flights of stairs.

 

“I can’t do this,” Sam says. “I can’t— I can’t.”

 

“Hey, hey, hey, no one said you had to do anything,” Dean says placatingly, prying Sam’s trembling hands away from the tiny coffee cup. Why didn’t he use mugs. Why’d he pick something so breakable. 

 

“Okay,” Sam says, trying real hard to keep his mind where his body is. “Uh, tell— tell me a story. Please— please don’t make me think about it anymore.” He’s spent so long holding in his begging that he can’t stop it from coming out here; _at least_ , he thinks, _Mom’ll think I have pretty decent manners._

 

Mom looks at both of them, and smiles. “Okay,” she says, very impressively hiding the fear and anger that Sam knows she’s feeling, “this is a story from before you were born, Sam. Dean was still just a little baby...”

 

Sam lets the music of her voice wash over him like a spell. He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he stirs at Dean laying a blanket over him. His last thought, before he passes out completely, is: _hey. it’s warm in here._


End file.
